Red lipstick

“You should wear makeup, dearest, and find yourself a boyfriend.” Madame

Constantinescu leaned and kissed me goodbye in front of the grocery shop,

a baguette sticking out of her purse, her cheeks two pink eggs ready to crack

in a nest of bouffant hair. The wife of Mr. Constantinescu—retired accountant

and family friend—she was commissioned to spread beauty advice and solve mom’s

marital issues from our kitchen couch. She glued tradition, prejudices and

good intentions with layers of lipstick— mortar to the foundation of the family—

while refilling coffee mugs. She knew better than anyone why my parents were

fighting, why the neighbor was cheated on. All the answers: makeup. Sometimes,

when her son would lose another Audi or bankrupt yet another business she would

enter a retuning break, her thoughts a loud cacophony, and come back with

strongest convictions. A permanent plastered smile. Same smile the mortician

painted in red so Madame could admire her legacy from underground:

red lipstick on her son’s dick, three empty chairs for her abandoned grandsons,

two ungrateful women who didn’t love him enough.